


Coming of Age

by Arrestzelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring John Winchester, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Father/Son Incest, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Unbeknownst to both John and Dean, something sparked and ignited after a sloppy wendigo hunt. It takes thirteen years before either of them face the flames. (Or: a lengthy fic containing mutual pining with fluff to satisfy my need for more fluffy John/Dean.)





	Coming of Age

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, I'm thirteen years late to the party! I've been on Tumblr for seven years, faced countless posts regarding Supernatural, tried watching the show back in 2011, and never really committed until like three weeks ago (thanks for asking me to watch it with you, Layne, I'm so glad you did!). Guess which ship put me in a chokehold? 
> 
> While I'm grateful for the somewhat high number of fics for this ship, 95% of them are just nasty smut. Which is okay, I really dig that. But I ship them beyond just incestuous fucking; I want them to be in love! So here's this.
> 
> The title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBqzrj18S2w), which I feel is fitting!

It began in 1992.

Dean had been abandoned, left to hide from a wendigo—in the middle of January. The wind is harsh in the woods of Minnesota, joined by the ruthless bite of below freezing temperature and the thick layer of snow. After Dad ran off after the creature, yelling at him to wait, Dean had managed to hide under a fallen trunk of a massive tree, gaining some protection from both the gaze of the wendigo and the call of the wind. He stayed there for two hours, before Dad found him, bundled up in a ball under a mound of tree pines. He had reached under, grabbed him without a gentleness, and silently marched him out of the woods, despite Dean’s sluggish failure to walk.

Only when John managed to hurry his son into the Impala did concern show on his rugged face. He made sure to strap him in due to the risk of the icy roads, and then cranked up the heat. With a growl of the engine, John sent them flying down the backroad of the woods, in the direction of the hotel.

“Dean! Wake up, son!” John had called, glancing between the road and Dean’s dazed face. He reached out to cup his face with a broad hand, fingers pressing into his cheeks, earning a fluttering of long lashes and a slight slurring from paled lips.

Signs of hypothermia—John pressed on the gas. The Impala screamed with energy, with an urgency to deliver them to safety.

At the hotel, John parked sloppily, cut the engine, and shoved out of the car, pocketing his keys as he rounded the hood to reach Dean’s side. Ripping open his door, John leaned into the cabin to unbuckle his son and gather him in his arms. Dean’s eyes rolled and then lazily fixed up on him; he blinked slowly. Jaw clenched and eyes alert, John was careful to balance him in his arms as he kicked the door shut. Considering his growth spurt, Dean was all long legs and slenderness. It made it a little harder to carry him; different from what John was used to.

John didn’t give a shit about consequence or costs. In a forceful kick, he burst open the motel door with a crack of wood—like hell he was going to set Dean down to dig out the key, or wait for Sam to respond. Then, striding in, he brought his limp son to one of the rumpled beds. He set him down and reached out to roughly unzip his thicker jacket, to carefully pull it off of him. Then comes his undercoat—by then, Dean stirred lethargically, his eyes rolling open and training dazedly up on his father. Distantly, John hears the humming of the motel shower. Sam.

Dean then slurred something that sounded similar to ‘Dad’. Concern flaring, John quickly, but gently, strips him down to just his boxers. His skin is tinted a red. He’s shuddering. Thirteen years old and still growing, John, once again, is reminded how much bigger Dean is. It seemed like only a month ago that Dean was a baby-faced squirt. But right now, it’s irrelevant. He carefully manhandled Dean under the thick covers. He bundled him up tightly. Dean groaned and sagged back into the bed.

Taking a seat beside him, John reached out to set his broad, calloused hand over his forehead, across short, slicked locks. Dean whimpered.

“It’s alright, Dean. The wendigo is dead, and you’re back in the motel. Warm up, now, got it?” John said quietly, stroking at his forehead and cheek. Dean, teeth clattering, looked at him dazedly. He swallowed hard and attempted to speak. The first two tries, John couldn’t understand a single word. On the third try, he gathered enough to determine Dean said something along the lines of: “Dad, you suck. You left me.”

Lips pressed together, John searched his boyish face. He nodded, dropped his gaze to Dean’s bundled, shivering body. After a moment of contemplation, John stood and kicked off his boots. Then he stepped out of his jeans with a clattering of his belt, joined by his leather jacket, the jacket underneath, and his sweater. Leaving him bare save for his underwear, John climbed up onto the bed and carefully laid down beside his son. Dean looked at him weakly. Silently, face tense, John lifted up the thick blankets to slip underneath.

“Come here,” John murmured, quietly. He drew his toned arms around the smaller boy and clutched him to his own scarred body, against hot skin. Dean sagged against him, eyes closed. An embrace like this is a rarity. It was so like Dad to only hold him this intimately when it was a matter of life or death. And now, Dean is pressed up against him, bare skin to bare skin, soaking up his warmth, smelling the natural scent of _him_ and the cheap aroma of motel shampoo—he even feels his body hair tickling him. A flickering of something new is birthed inside Dean’s core, whether he was aware of it or not. A tired, heavy smile inched its way across his tingling face.

Silently laying in the comforting arms of his father, he felt the idle stroking of blunt fingertips against his shoulder blade, and then a hand closing around the back of his head.

 

* * *

 

Four years later, in 1996, Dean is seventeen. Sam is thirteen, and just as oblivious and obnoxious as Dean had been at that age. But now, Dean is more developed, both in size and wisdom. He heeds every word his father mutters, obeys every command given. In Sam’s eyes, Dean worships the man. Values his word above all else, considers his thoughts before his own—to an excessively blind degree.

And while that is true, Sam doesn’t realize how deeply that idolization runs. It courses through Dean’s veins, pulsates in his heart. In his core, it burns brightly. While he does fear his father’s disapproval, he’s more desperate for his praise, his approval. He works more for the smile that comes, he works for the gruffly spoken “good”, or the pat to his head, or the nod. He strives to be the best Dad wants him to be, for the sake of making him happy. He doesn’t try to please him out of fear, to simply avoid his wrath. He does it because he enjoys making him smile.

A feeling of true warmth and contentment swells in Dean when Dad acknowledges him. When he does smile at him, when he says “good boy” or “well done” or “that’s my Dean”. It fills Dean with such happiness. He labels it as admiration, as the adoration a son has towards his father. It’s like this for many years, and it had been growing more intense ever since Dad saved him from death through a simple embrace. At first, it wasn’t like this.

At first, for the half-dozen years since his mother’s death, Dean resented him. For failing to save Mom, for abandoning life as they knew it to seek the killer while looking through the clouding lens of revenge. Leaving him and Sam trapped in the confines of various motels, or in the homes of friends that he and Sam never really knew. Burdened with the task of caring for themselves, for aging without the loving presence of a father. Faced with stern lectures and only very brief embraces upon reuniting after a hunt. It left them with a gaping feeling of emptiness in their cores, a hole that only fatherly love could fill.

For Dean, that hole eventually began to fill, gradually, slowly, through the combination of his love for Sammy, and by his admiration of his father. Maybe it was ignorance, or neglect of how shitty Dad really was. But now at his age, Dean is more forgiving, understanding. He knows how hard Dad has had it. He knows the awful pain he must’ve faced, seeing the woman he loved consumed with flames, now burdened with the weight of caring for two kids alone. The struggle of trying to gain justice, while trying to be a father. It’s hard. It’s so damn difficult. Dean knows this now. He still holds some grudges, grudges he hasn’t quite shaken off yet—but, insignificant grudges all the same. Dean can tell Sam isn’t on the same page. He still has growing to do.

One day, it’s just Dean and John in the room. Sam is out, probably taking a walk or something; Dean could tell he was bottling up his anger again, and as he’s discovered through observation, his little brother escapes the confines of the motel room to regain his composure.

Dad is seated at the table, flipping through his book to find a number to call—he failed to mention for what reason, though Dean knows better than to ask. Dean himself is laying back on one of the beds, legs crossed and arms folded behind his head, fingers curling into the carved wood design of the bedframe.

He’s feeling overheated—it’s damn hot at this time of the year. So, while Dad is punching in that phone number, Dean rises. He pulls off his olive button-up shirt that hung open on his shoulders. He tosses it onto his bag. Then, he strips off his shirt underneath, exposing a lean torso, a torso defined with developing muscle. The fan spinning wildly at full speed above the bed gusts a breeze across his sweaty skin. It feels great and has Dean sighing. Glancing over, he notices Dad’s heavy eyes trained on him.

Dean’s belly flickers with excitement. He likes it when Dad focuses on him. It’s selfish and infantile, but he tends to enjoy his attention. Probably shows some underlying issues, but whatever. Dean keeps his face schooled, save for the faintest smile on his heart-shaped lips, as he unbuckles his belt and steps out of his jeans. Wearing only his briefs now, he lets out a breath. Shit, what is he doing? Now this is more than just undressing for the sake of cooling down.

Peeking over, he finds Dad’s lingering stare. But it’s become distant, as if his stare is far gone, in another place. When John notices his glance, he turns away and clears his throat to speak gruffly into the phone, saying, “Hi. It’s John.”

Dean doesn’t care to listen in on the conversation. While Dad’s deep voice fills the hotel room, a gravelly sound that comforts Dean, Dean decides he can do without redressing. It’s not like he owns a single pair of shorts. He calmly paces past his father, purposefully lacing his fingers and stretching his arms up high above his head. The glance John throws his way is not unnoticed.

Smiling to himself, face flushed, Dean approaches the mini-fridge and pulls it open to grab a soda from within.

What the fuck is he doing? Why is he putting on a show for his _dad?_

 

* * *

 

A month later, in Wisconsin, they’re seeking out the presence of a vengeful spirit. Dad had departed three hours ago to research at a local library, and left Dean with the responsibility of looking after Sam. Which is just fine—Dean is happy to do so. He’s been busting his ass running around for Dad the last three weeks. A break to lounge around sounds great to him. But, that meant three weeks of not busting a very different part of him. He really needs to jerk off.

After telling Sam to take a _long_ shower (to which his brother grimaced and scoffed with disgust, while entering the bathroom to do so, knowing _full well_ Dean would probably just start jerking off regardless of his presence), Dean gets comfortable on one of the hotel beds. Specifically, _Dad’s_ bed. He tries to kick away the sliver of shame that prods at him as he turns his face into the pillows. It holds a pungent aroma of Dad’s musk. Shit. Blood rushes into his dick, _real_ damn fast.

He’s really not sure when, but the admiration developed into attraction. Somehow, it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He just tends to block it out—except, well, when he masturbates.

With his eyes closed, rapid flickers of images filter through his thoughts, despite his weak protests: Dad’s broad smile that lights up his face and brings out his crow’s feet, shirtless when he strips off a bloody shirt to expose scarred muscle and body hair, the times he’s pinned Dean to the wall with a fist out of anger. And, god forbid, it progresses into even worse territory.

He thinks about Dad yanking his clothing off of him, shoving him upon one of the beds and kissing him all over. A kissing that isn’t necessarily filthy and wicked in its nature. Kissing that is slow, and gentle, and loving. Kissing that extends up to Dean’s willing, full lips. Kissing that becomes a kiss, a kiss that is passionate, and tender, and _long._ The thought of Dad touching him, and wanting him, with such gentleness and adoration turns Dean on beyond any naughty thought that borders more on the filthy side. The mental image of Dad pinning him down and worshipping his body with wandering hands and warm lips has heat building in his face. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him? Dean’s complete arousal negates the disgust in himself.

It all comes screeching to a halt when suddenly, he hears the click of a key being pushed into the door, and said door unlocking with a snap. The door is then shoved open, before Dean could fully emerge from the haze of masturbation. He rips his hand away from himself and grabs the sheets to fling them over himself entirely, shielding the sight of himself from Dad, and the sight of Dad from himself.

Silence hangs thickly in the hotel room. Dad hadn’t even taken a step in. Anxious, Dean debates what to do. Well, he’s not a bitch, so he decides to face his fears. He moves to sit up, keeping the sheets bundled tightly around himself. He looks over at Dad with a frown, his cheeks red and hair messy. Dad is staring at him, seated on _his bed,_ his bed which he had _just_ been _masturbating_ on. His brow is furrowed, his mouth in a deeply unsettled frown. Dean presses a hand to his face, sighing. That has John storming in, slamming the door shut behind himself.

“Dean, what in _the hell_ are you doing?” he growls, dropping his bag heavily onto the table with a rattling thud. Dean’s heart is racing wildly in his chest, a knot of horror twisting in his gut. He swallows hard and stares at his knees.

“Uh…” he begins, not quite as eloquent as he typically is. This is awful. All levels of hell, put together. He wants to die.

“Get—Just… Go. Just go,” Dad begins fiercely, voice heavy and caught with mixed emotions that Dean can’t pick apart. Peeking up at him again, Dean sees conflict on his rugged, stubbled face. Dean scrambles out of his bed, taking the sheets with him. He snatches his underwear and a pair of jeans from his bag before stumbling across the floor to reach the other section of the hotel room where the sink is, obscured by a wall. Here, he has some privacy. God, he’s such a fucking idiot.

Face burning and heart twisting, Dean steps into his briefs and jeans, ignoring his dying erection. He takes a minute to recover by washing his face and pressing it into a towel for a long while. Then he throws the towel against the counter and steps out into the main room again, trying to square his shoulders and show he’s not afraid to own up to it.

But he is. Oh, he is.

John is seated on his bed, at the foot of it. He’s leaning over, elbows set upon his knees with one hand raised to rub tiredly at his face. He doesn’t glance up when Dean quietly rounds his and Sammy’s bed to take a seat on the side, facing Dad. He crosses his naked arms and worries at his bottom lip. He knows this has to be discussed, otherwise an awkward atmosphere will linger.

“Look,” John begins, jerking his hand away from his face in a shaky gesture, his tired eyes flicking over to meet Dean’s, “I don’t care if you want to beat off. Just don’t do it on _my_ bed, got it? I don’t even know _what_ was crossing your mind. You need to respect _my_ space.”

Dean can tell, judged by the look in his eyes and the tension in his jaw, that Dad is trying to keep his gaze locked on Dean’s, without letting it descend. The way his eyelids falter slightly, his lips pressed together, the clenching of his teeth. He may be just seventeen, still growing, but Dean recognizes that expression.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” Dean says, quietly. A long moment of tense silence hangs between them. Dean feels awful. He never wants to upset Dad. He hates making him angry.

Sighing, John shakes his head and then mutters, “Forget it. Go get your brother. We’re going to go eat at a nearby diner. Gotta feed you kids.”

Dean refrains from mentioning that they ate an hour ago. He immediately, silently, rises to approach the bathroom door.

 

Seated beside his younger brother in a late-night diner which smells distinctly of old leather and wood polish, Dean picks lamely at his fries, cheek propped in his hand. Dad is on his third cup of coffee, an indication he’ll be staying up late to dig into the research of this hunt some more. Sam is quiet beside him, cupping a mug of hot cocoa between his hands. The tension is so thick Dean wants to strangle himself with it. He’s so uncomfortable.

Sammy doesn’t know what happened, but he can definitely tell something’s up based on the subtle glances he keeps throwing Dean. Dean just gives a slight shake of his head with a closing of his eyes. Sam huffs from beside him, earning a flick of John’s heavy eyes. Dean is actually amazed he peeled them up from his book. Usually, when there’s a dispute, he withdraws, refuses to acknowledge them, and waits for it to resolve itself. Whatever. It’s not like Dean wanted to talk about Dad walking in on him buffing the banana, especially when Sammy is present. It’s just awkward.

 

 

* * *

 

A year later—Dean now at the robust age of eighteen, Sam fourteen—they find themselves in the comfort of company. Dad arranged for the hunt of a particularly slippery demon with the help of one of his hunter buddies, and thus, they took the drive out to Northbrook, Illinois. Now, Sammy is sleeping soundly in a comfortable bed with a memory foam mattress, joined by multiple pillows and layers of plush blankets that aren’t as stiff as cardboard like they _tend_ to be in hotels. Switching off the overhead light and quietly shutting the door on the sight of Sam all bundled up, eyes closed with his mop of curls falling prettily across his forehead and cheeks, has Dean departing with a smile. It truly makes Dean happy when Sam can sleep in a bed that makes him feel like he’s home again.

Quietly pacing out to the staircase, the floorboards creaking softly under his step, Dean peers out beyond the banister, towards the sitting room. He sees Dad and his friend (Was it Quinn? Or Flynn? Does it even matter? Hint: No, not to Dean) seated together, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s perched happily on the table between them. Well, great. Adult Drinking Time™. He supposes he’ll just fuck off, then.

It’s not like he wanted to spend time with his Dad in a place like this. A _home_ with separate rooms, with warmth, with an atmosphere of comfort and familiarity. Sighing, Dean pushes into the guestroom assigned to him—right beside Sammy’s, if his younger brother needed anything in the night.

After yanking off his boots, stripping down to his briefs, and removing his jewelry, Dean splats into the heavenly bed and moans.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he mumbles into the feather pillows, eyes rolling shut. His remaining two braincells rub together enough for him to coherently drag the thick, downy covers over himself. Then he passes out.

 

At an uncertain time later, Dean is woken by the sudden jostling of the bed he sleeps upon. It has him blinking widely and jerking up onto an elbow. Considering how damn dark it is, Dean reflexively grabs his knife from under the pillow and reaches over to turn the lamp on. A big calloused hand roughly grasping his wrist and snatching the knife from his grip distracts him from doing so. In the darkness, Dean can’t see, but he can hear.

“Dean, relax. It’s me.”

Dad.

A very _intoxicated_ Dad. He’s slurring so damn much, Dean can hardly understand him. Fucking hell.

“What do you want?” Dean grits out, with more force than intended. He _hates_ it when Dad is this wasted. Mostly because he says stupid shit that only serves to hurt him, or, worst of all, Sammy. He tends to be a little rougher, too. Not that Dean can’t handle roughness. Dad grunts and tosses the knife onto the floor. He then lets that arm collapse around Dean’s midsection. Dean tenses up, a contradiction of emotions clashing together inside his head. Dad embracing him = good. Dad embracing him, while blind drunk = not so good.

Dad embracing him, and then leaning forward to nuzzle his face against Dean’s shoulder = holy shit.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Dean sputters, shifting away nervously. His heart is beginning to hammer. It’s been a _long_ time since he’s been faced with this kind of affection from Dad. Actually, probably ever since the time he caught him masturbating—Dad has avoided touching him in any platonic way, if he can help it. It’s throwing him off. John grunts and shifts; Dean feels his messy hair brush across his bare neck.

“Holdin’ you,” John slurs, “Let me.”

“You sure know how to make a guy weak in the knees, Dad,” Dean remarks, sarcastically. A defense-mechanism, obviously, and Dean hates how he’s adopted his own version of withdrawing. Dad’s cheek is scratchy and rough with facial hair—it has a shudder shooting up and down Dean’s spine when John absentmindedly rubs his cheek against him. Dean laughs, nervously.

“You tryin’ to give me rug burn? Sorry, the only way I’m getting rug burn is if I’m getting wet and wild with a woman on the floor.”

He shifts away, but John refuses. He tightens his powerful arm around him and growls, “Stay still. I got somethin’ to say.”

“And pinning me down is how you’d like to convey that,” Dean states, flatly. Dad says nothing. He just breathes quietly against him. Dean wrinkles his nose. His breath reeks of whiskey. Dean doesn’t know how to handle this. He’s repulsed, he’s confused, he’s curious, and he’s enjoying it.

“I don’t know how t’say this gently,” Dad mumbles, slurring, “So, yes, I’m gon’ pin you down. Now shut up.”

Dean looks up at the ceiling, lips pressed together, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t speak again. Dad’s hand is wonderfully warm and big as it runs down over Dean’s abs. In such a slow, inching pace that Dean is only aware of, because he’s hyper-focused on every part of John that’s touching him. It’s tortuous. Dad’s touch is gradually descending, his callouses running across Dean’s soft skin. Dean begins to shake, despite his attempts to control it. He’s breathing heavily, quivering, muscles clenching up.

“Y’scared?” John murmurs, spoken so quietly, so lowly, so gravelly, Dean barely hears it.

“No,” Dean says. He doesn’t clarify _why_ he’s trembling so damn hard. “No. I’m not. Not of you.”

“What are y’scared of?”

Silence hangs thickly around them, broken only by Dean’s shuddering breaths and the chirping of crickets beyond the windows. Dean’s eyes are adjusted now. With the aid of the moonlight, Dean can subtly glance over to see Dad. His eyes are closed, his hair wild, face slack save for his knit eyebrows. He’s… So handsome. Dean clenches his jaw and looks away.

“Ruining everything,” Dean answers, and before Dad could question him further, he asks quietly, “What do you want to tell me, Dad?”

“I want… T’tell you what _I’m_ scared of, Dean.”

Dean pauses. He resists the very strong, tempting urge to look at him again. He stares up at the ceiling, his entire body thrumming with desire, with energy, with restlessness. He’s beginning to sweat. John lets out a breath, a rush of air that runs across Dean’s tan skin.

“I don’ want to be like this,” Dad slurs, heavily, “I don’t want this. I don’t want you, like this. I don’t. Shit, Dean…”

Dean swallows hard. His heart is pounding, the sound of blood rushing through his ears like a waterfall. He knows his Dad can hear it, too. His ear is practically on his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Dad mumbles, which _somehow_ manages to shock Dean further. This time, he does tuck his chin to look at his father’s face. His aged, scruffy face is bunched up with pain; his lips in a twisted grimace, his brow furrowed, his eyes clenched, the lines of his face accentuated. Dean feels crushed, seeing that look on his face. John continues, speaking gruffly in a nearly incomprehensible slur, Dean watching his lips move, “I’m sorry m’like this. You deserve better. I shouldn’t feel this. You shouldn’ be stuck with an old fuck like me.”

“What?” Dean blurts quietly with confusion, his face on fire, “What are you even saying? What are you ‘like’, Dad?”

Then John raises his head, with great effort. He wobbles a bit as he props up on an elbow to look at Dean through glassy, watery eyes. The moonlight illuminates his face well enough, Dean can see the disgust and pain on it. John’s heavy eyes drop to stare at his son’s full lips. Dean’s insides clench. John shakes his head heavily (at himself?) and then inches closer, his hand lifting from Dean’s heaving stomach to clumsily grasp at the side of his face, thumb pressing into his cheek. Dean watches, wide-eyed, as his dad leans in to kiss him on the forehead. Warmth bursts inside of Dean. For just a moment, he feels tingly and content, but then the confusion and concern replaces it yet again. John draws back and searches Dean’s young, handsome face with exhaustion on his own.

“You’re m’son,” John murmurs, smiling weakly. That seemed like a final statement, a heavy reminder, but then he goes on in a sluggish slur, his eyes soft and gazing into Dean’s, “I want y’to be happy, okay? More than what’ver I want.”

“D-Dad,” Dean begins, a nervous, breathless laugh mixing in, his vibrant green eyes wary and careful, “I want you to be happy, too. Whatever it takes.”

Swallowing hard, Dean searches his Dad’s rugged face and determines he won’t remember a damn moment of this. He lets out a breath, his insides full with butterflies. Softly, he speaks in a whisper, his eyes tender and fixed on John’s, “I just want to see you smile.”

Fuck it. He supposes this is a night of truths, drunken or not. John looks touched by that. Dean smiles himself and rises onto an elbow. He reaches up to take John’s hand in his own, bringing it down from holding the side of his face. He kisses his fingers firmly, eyes closing. Dean’s heart is singing. He really can’t believe this is happening. He kisses him thrice more; over his curled knuckles, against the back of his hand. Then he looks at his Dad through long lashes, his face burning and alight with a flame.

John looks a mixture of horrified, conflicted, and moved. He withdraws his hand from Dean’s and fleetingly cups his son’s freckled cheek again. Dean licks his lips; John’s glassy gaze tracks the motion. Then he sucks in a shaky breath and releases a deep chuckle.

“I gotta go,” he slurs, moving to get up, though with great difficulty, “Before I do anythin’ stupid.”

Dean immediately moves to help him. As much as he likes laying in bed with Dad, he’s not going to deny him an escape. He lets the old man lean on him, an arm wound around his midsection, as he helps him up off the bed. Then, he begins towards the door, John against his hip. No way is he going to risk the drunk bastard taking a tumble down the stairs, especially after _that._

Following a very tiring journey to John’s bedroom, Dean helps him get undressed and into bed. Then he momentarily leaves to retrieve a glass of water to set on his bedside table. Once he returns, he sets the water within reach, tucks his father in, sits by his side, and says goodnight before laying a stiffly, awkwardly placed kiss to John’s temple. Then he turns off the lamp and leaves, shutting the door behind himself.

 

In the morning, they’re up bright and early, at 10 A.M.—which is early for Dean, alright? He feels like a zombie as he trudges out of his bedroom, after being wrestled awake by Sam. He crawls into the shower to wake up, too braindead to recall the night before. Only after he’s clean, redressed, and entering the kitchen does it hit him like a truck. Seeing his father standing at the counter beside Flynn or Quinn or Ben or whatever, pushing some bacon around on a pan, does he recall what he said.

His heart seems to have remembered too; it begins to race. He tries to keep his cool as he approaches. He grins and reaches out to clap John on the back, earning a very slight flinch and a tired glare over a shoulder. Internally anxious, Dean greets loudly with a laugh and blinding smile, “How’s that hangover treatin’ you?”

 

Ten minutes later, Sammy emerges, the staircase audibly creaking. Seated at the dining table with a mouthful of bacon and eggs, Dean whirls around to watch his younger brother tiredly shuffle his way to the table, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. He grins broadly, his cheeks bulging with the food. Sam makes a face at him as he drops into one of the chairs. Dean pushes the platter of bacon and eggs towards him. To their right, Dad and their kind host are discussing the plans for today’s hunt. Peeking over at Dad, who’s rubbing a hand down over the lower half of his face, seemingly exhausted, Dean wonders why he drank so damn much last night if they had plans that could be hindered by a hangover. Usually, he’s not careless when it came to the work. But then again, the hunt does sober Dad up pretty damn well.

Deciding not to comment on it, Dean just refocuses his attention on Sam, watching him lazily spear some scrambled egg, his curls obscuring some of his tired face due to how much he’s slumping over.

Reaching out, Dean knocks him on the shoulder with a hand and demands cheerily, grinning, “Fix your posture, Sam! Don’t want you developing a hunch in your back—can’t go huntin’ monsters when you’re lookin’ like Quasimodo.”

 

* * *

 

That night never resurfaced. Questions and assumptions swam around in Dean’s head endlessly, though never to a point it hindered his focus when it came to the hunt. It only kept him up at night, staring at the ceiling of whatever cheap hotel they were staying at for the last few days. Wondering, hoping, anticipating—for what, though? Dean doesn’t really know. He hates feeling like he’s waiting for something. With Dad, you should never expect anything of him. Ever since he was a kid, it’s been nailed into him that it only sets them up for disappointment.

It continues like this for six more months, until the waiting, the hoping, the questions fade from Dean’s daily thoughts. He knows it was just a spur of the moment thing, just ‘cause Dad was mindlessly drunk. The disappointment that settles deeply in his gut irritates Dean. He wishes he never anticipated anything. It’s not like Dad would ever step over… That line. Whatever that line was. Dean doesn’t even really know himself. Sometimes, he does catch certain expressions on Dad’s face, or gain a _feeling_ of suspicion when it came to his behavior, or things he said, but as always, it never meant anything and he was kept at arm’s length.

He was fine with easing back into the normality of life as hunters, pretending like it never happened. Dean just refocused on looking after Sammy. That’s all that really matters, anyways. Dean’s feelings are at the bottom of the ladder when it came to importance.

 

* * *

 

Fucking helps. Now at twenty, Dean often sneaks out of the hotel room at night, if only to hook up and take his mind off of everything. Almost to the point of addiction—he does it nearly every single night, and at this point, he’s amazed Dad hasn’t caught him yet. Maybe he’s just that damn slick.

While it does serve as a good distraction, it’s just that: a distraction. And distractions don’t always last. At the end of the night, he’s sneaking back _into_ the hotel room, back into his bed shared with Sammy. He’s always ends up staring at the ceiling, his heart tight and constricting. And without fail, his gaze slides over to stare at the sleeping form of his father. It’s all so very sickening, at this point. It settles in his gut like a weight.

He wonders when this will end—if it ever will.

 

* * *

 

Everything falls apart when Sammy and Dad have another one of their screaming matches. Sam had confronted their father about his piss-poor job as a parent. This is typical, but this time, it got out of hand. Dad said _just_ all the wrong things to further drive Sam away, to the point he was suddenly announcing he’s done living like this; that he was going to leave. Due to his own shock, Dean hadn’t stepped in like he always does—he watches as their family rips apart by the seams as Sam claims he plans to go to school and escape this hellish lifestyle, which in turn has their father exploding with a fresh wave of fury, until it ended in him yelling at him to leave and never come back. Dean felt helpless, watching Sam walk out that door, duffel bag slung over a shoulder, a door that was ultimately slammed shut with such force it rattled the windows of the motel room.

“Dad,” Dean began weakly with a lift of a hand, which earned a sharp glance from cold eyes. Swallowing hard, Dean looked at him with a vulnerable expression on his face. Dad had his hands in fists, shoulders squared, chest heaving with his enraged panting. Dean shook his head.

“Don’t you think that could’ve been handled a little more delicately?” he asked quietly, without force.

“Don’t start with me, boy!” Dad snapped at him, pointing a piercing finger at him, before he strode to the door, ripped it open, and rushed out. Soon after, Dean heard the rumble of the Impala.

 

A week later, despite the downfall, they find themselves in Texas. Hunting a werewolf. Not that Dean cares. He’s just here to follow his father’s orders like a machine. Sometimes, Sammy calls him, or emails him. The conversations are dry, forced, uncertain. Dean doesn’t feel connected to him anymore, like the past meant nothing—in the back of his mind, buried underneath neglected memories and feelings, he blames his father. Dad tore away the last sliver of his happiness, due to being such a hotheaded bastard. Dean tries not to develop resentment, but sometimes, he wants to be as far away from him as possible, much like Sam.

It’s not fair. He’s constantly battling the mixed feelings of anger, of loneliness, of desire. He just wants to be content. He just wants to feel fine, hunting alone with his father. At the start, this is what he wanted. He was tired of always watching after Sam, missing out on spending time with his father. But now, it means nothing.

Two years pass, a timeframe that rushes by like water through his fingers. Sam eventually stopped responding to his emails, tried to pull away from the phone calls as soon as possible, until Dean just gave up. Dad isn’t as cold and distant as he was when this first happened. Now, he’s just _there,_ a presence to keep him going. Acting more like an overseer than a father. Dean feels so damn alone. It’s driving him insane.

 

* * *

 

**January 24th, 2005**

A wrapped box is dropped onto the open book before him. Dean blinks, looks up, sees Dad standing beside the table with the slightest smile on his lips. Dean stares at his smile, then drops his gaze to the box. Setting his pen down, Dean reaches out to take it in hand; he twists it around and then meets Dad’s gaze again, a slight smirk pulling at his full lips.

“What is this?” he asks, though he already knows. Dad pulls out one of the chairs at the table of the hotel room and takes a seat. He folds his hands together in his lap, elbows propped on the armrests, and nods towards it with a warmer smile.

“You know. Open it,” he says, voice gruff but placid.

Dean does just that; he rips off the simple wrapping paper (some goofy lookin’ wrapping paper with obnoxiously colored ‘Happy Birthday!’s decorating it) and finds himself a velvet box. Staring at it, Dean’s heart leaps into his throat. Velvet boxes imply jewelry. If his Dad bought him some fucking jewelry… That’ll be the day. Dad usually just buys him a bigger, nicer knife every year with a treat to Dean’s restaurant of choice. It’s probably a very _small_ knife, just to fuck with him.

Carefully, he draws the lid open and is greeted by the sight of a ring made of polished steel. It gleams at him. It’s only a simple band, with no engravings. It’s just like something Dad would buy. Nothing special about it, _but_ it _is_ very special. Dean’s breath catches. It seems like this is the day. His insides twist around like someone finds his guts just as appealing as spaghetti and they’re just spinning a fork around in there and just—Dean isn’t very eloquent at the moment. He gawks at the ring and then gawks at his father. John smiles.

Dean is speechless. John waits. Dean clears his throat, adjusts himself in his seat, and then speaks lowly, saying past a light laugh, “I appreciate the thought, Dad, but if you’re going to buy me a cock ring, it’s gonna have to be a little bigger.”

John’s eyes have that twinkling in them, that look that makes Dean fucking _melt._ Dad grins, a baring of his teeth with his crow’s feet wrinkling up. He shakes his head and says, “Shut the hell up. Happy birthday, you smartass.”

“I—” Dean begins, looking back down at the shiny band of silver. He huffs a laugh and then says quietly, fixing his touched gaze on John’s again, “Thank you. It’s, uh… It’s beautiful.”

John nods and gestures to it, saying, “Well, put it on. I want to know if I got the right size.”

Dean knows it has to be. Dad would never fuck up something like this. He would be positive before buying the damn thing.

Face hot, Dean obliges; he carefully reaches up to draw it out of its place. He sets the velvet box down and raises his right hand. He tests it on his index; too small. He tries his ring finger. It slides on effortlessly. He gazes silently at the sight of the sleek silver band on his finger. He’s not sure what to say.

He looks at John and smiles, weakly. He rises from the chair, and John follows suit. Dean tugs him into a hug, eyes trained distantly on the wall of the hotel room. John returns it tightly, with a firm squeezing of his arms that has Dean’s breath straining. Dean refuses to let go, even when John begins to withdraw. John laughs lowly—he lazily drapes his arms around him, letting him get away with it. The silence is warm and comfortable as Dean holds him, his eyes closing. John clears his throat quietly and breaks that silence to say, “I ran out of knives to buy you.”

That has Dean pulling back and laughing, looking at John through a thin veil of tears. John grins and reaches up to hold his cheek affectionately. Dean pauses. That gesture brings him back to that night, a night years ago now. John hasn’t touched him like that since. It has Dean’s heart jumping to a start. He searches John’s fond expression with wide eyes, his cheeks burning and throat tight.

“Dad,” Dean begins, voice rough, which has Dad’s grin fading to a faint smile, “I—I know you don’t want to hear this. But… I need to know.”

Dad’s smile disappears. He withdraws his touch from Dean’s face and looks at his son with tension, his brow furrowed. Dean averts his gaze to the ring on his finger. He doesn’t look at his father as he speaks lowly, reluctantly.

“Do you remember staying at your friend’s cabin in Northbrook? Six years ago. Sam was fourteen, I was eighteen. We were hunting some demon.”

“Yes, why?” John replies, his deep voice noticeably wary. Dean pans his eyes up to meet John’s.

“You said some things. I don’t know if you remember. But… I don’t know. I need some clarification, is all.”

“What did I say, Dean?” John asks firmly, searching his face with a frown on his own. Dean reaches up to scratch at the back of his head, letting out a deep breath. He purses his lips, debating whether to go through with this or not. His heart is hammering and the anxiety thickening in his gut is something awful. He just clears his throat and says quietly, eyes downcast, “You said some things that were… Uh… Implying. Some things.”

Peeking over at his dad, Dean sees him staring at him, his expression stony, jaw clenched and eyes unreadable. Dean goes on quietly.

“Like, uh… How you don’t want to ‘be like this’, that you don’t want me… ‘like this’. And that I don’t deserve to be stuck with you. While kinda… _Clinging_ to me. You were _really_ drunk.”

“What do you want me to say?” John says lowly, his voice so rough with a mixture of emotions that Dean can only classify as anger and disgust. Dean looks up at him, eyebrows raised and eyes searching. Dad looks like he’s about to explode. His jaw is clenching, his eyes hard, brow knit, the muscles in his neck flexing. Dean realizes he should’ve kept his mouth shut. It’s his damn birthday, he shouldn’t have done this _now,_ when the moment was so good. But it felt like this was the time.

“I want you to explain,” Dean murmurs, staring into his tense gaze unwaveringly, “I want you to tell me what it is you were feeling. Because it’s been slowly eating away at me, all this time.”

Dean doesn’t mention the little things that have built up over the years, especially ever since Sam left. The lingering stares when Dean is fresh out of the shower or coming back to the hotel room after a hook-up, the avoidance, the nights Dad would stay up late to research some more, unaware Dean is watching him from within the shroud of darkness, watching him watching _him_ sleep. The even rarer times—it happened only thrice, since this lifestyle began—when Dean would hear him jerking off in the shower (it’s hard to avoid when they’re stuck living in such close quarters all the time, alright?). The look Dad would throw his way as he comes walking out, toweling his hair, wearing only his jeans. God. Dean had tried repressing those memories, but they always seem to resurface.

Even now, Dean feels uncomfortable recalling it—only because of how _he_ had responded to it. The thought of his father masturbating in the shower they share, wondering what he thought about, _who_ he thought about, picturing what he looks like touching himself, fist against the shower wall, locks running with water and getting in his eyes, his hairy chest heaving, how he sounds when he—

It’s all too much. Dean just wants answers, so he can lay his own feelings to rest. Maybe if Dad just screams a little at him, expresses how disgusting it is, how he could dare to suggest such a thing, Dean would be fixed.

“I’m sorry,” Dad mutters, and it is _far_ from what Dean wanted to hear. His hard gaze falls away from Dean’s. He sinks further back into the chair, resting his hands limply on his jean-clad thighs, a deep breath slipping from his lungs. Dean watches him silently, his insides seized with both nervousness and hope. John stares at his lap as he speaks lowly.

“It just took that one time. Drank a little too much, thought a little too much.”

He pauses, contemplating. Dean waits, heart racing like a fucking horse in his chest. John’s heavy eyes flick up to meet his fleetingly, and then they avert again.

“You understand the complexity of humanity, of human emotion. Sometimes, we feel things, or want things, that we don’t _want_ to feel, desires we don’t _want_ to have. But… It only started when you were old enough to be called a man. I don’t want you to think it went further back than that.”

Dean shook his head once, silently, brow furrowed. John watches him tiredly, searching his stony face as he goes on.

“I know you understand. I’m not an idiot, and you’re my son. I know how you get when you’re around a woman you particularly like. As much as I wanted to deny it, I could sense something.”

Another pause. Dean is just speechless, breathless. John clears his throat and continues.

“But I didn’t want to take advantage of that. I still don’t. I never wanted this fucking…” he pauses, searching for a word, then throws up a hand as he spits out, _“Thing_ to come to light. I know I can be a difficult father at times, but I did not want to become _that_ kind of father. I couldn’t do that to you, to Sammy, to myself… And to Mary. Not that I even wanted to. The desire to refrain was stronger than the urge.”

“So, there’s your ‘clarification’,” John mutters, turning his head away to stare at the carpet of the hotel room, “That’s what I was feeling.”

“Am,” Dean blurts out, earning a sharp glance from John’s narrowed eyes, “’Am’, right? You never said it stopped.”

John opens his mouth, looking particularly shocked. Dean presses his lips together, searching in his disbelieving gaze. Then he lets out a breath and continues, pressing his luck.

“It never stopped for me,” he says softly, hands clenching into fists, his emerald eyes weak, “Dad, I—I’m the same. I don’t want to feel like this. I tried fucking my way into some other infatuation, or maybe just a way out of it. It never changed. I—Shit. I don’t know. I still…”

He trails off, biting his lip. He gazes at John’s unreadable expression as he goes on, whispering, “I know it’s really fucked up. Trust me, I know. I don’t think this is okay. But it never went away. I’ve felt like this for so damn long, Dad. I don’t even know what to label it as, at this point.”

John sits there motionlessly, staring at the wood of the table under his arm. They remain seated together for a long moment, a moment choked with tension and uncertainty. Dean keeps fidgeting; he rubs his hand over the other, spins the ring on his finger, licks his lips. And then John nods stiffly—such a subtle motion, Dean barely catches it. Without a word, John rises from his chair and turns away to begin towards the door. Dean watches him, feeling his heart cave in with incredible, suffocating disappointment as he stares at the departing image of his father’s back. But then John pauses at the door, hand on the doorknob.

Turning slightly so his profile is visible to Dean, John speaks lowly.

“It’s comes down to you. Not to me.”

Then he yanks open the door and strides out into the icy winter air, the striking whiteness of the snow swallowing him whole.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, days full of contemplation, Dean lays awake at night. An owl is hooting outside the hotel room, perched along the row of trees that run behind the hotel complex. It’s chilly tonight. The temperature had taken a dive. Dean feels uncomfortably cold.

It didn’t take long. The day following his discussion with Dad, Dean went out and shamefully bought some necessary… toiletries. They sit like a flame inside his duffel bag, flickering at him in a heated reminder. He can even see the handle of the plastic bag peeking out, as if to wave and say “hey, you gay, incestuous fuck—come use me!”

That plastic bag is a real asshole. Trying to manipulate him, coax him into doing shit he really should not even _think_ of doing.

He glances over towards his father. Dad seems to be asleep. He’s laying on his back, hands tucked up under the pillows. He’s breathing slowly and deeply—Dean watches his chest rise and fall. It’s soothing. Dean smiles faintly. At least _he_ can get some sleep. He deserves it.

Dean lays like this, watching John sleep with a smile on his face, for a while. Until the cold is too much, and his desire is too great. He rises from the cheap hotel bed with a creak of the springs and flimsy frame. Dressed in a sleep shirt and baggy sweatpants to battle the chill of the winter night, Dean carefully climbs onto Dad’s bed. He knows he should let him get his rest, but Dean wants, _needs,_ his warmth.

When he slides under the rumpled covers and aligns his broad body with Dad’s, propped up on an elbow, Dean gazes down at his sleeping face silently. He can see his face through the vibrant moonlight. He really needs to shave. His beard is getting thick. His eyes are roaming under closed eyelids, his mouth slightly agape. Dean’s cheeks and heart warm, admiring his lax face, a face bearing no tension or aggression. Staring at him, Dean is swallowed by the cluster of thoughts that shout: “ _I love him_ ”, “ _he’s so handsome_ ”, “ _he’s perfect_ ”. Dean presses his lips together and shakes his head. His _thoughts_ need to cool it.

“Dad,” Dean whispers, reaching out to set a hand on his chest. John startles awake, all too easily. His hands lurch up from under the pillows, eyes snapping open and training on the younger man. Dean shushes him and says, “It’s me. Relax.”

John _does_ relax, but then he tenses up again when he realizes Dean is in his bed. He looks at him wordlessly, face schooled. Dean shifts closer to him, grabbing the blankets to draw them tighter around them. They’re warm from Dad’s body heat. It feels heavenly, battling the cold wracking Dean’s body. Dean glances down towards his tired, rugged face. John’s hair is messy, his lips pressed together, eyes bearing a wariness, but also a subtle gentleness. Dean smiles faintly down at him. He reaches up to brush back his wild bangs with tender fingertips. He doesn’t want to scare him away.

John softens, slightly. He gazes up at his son with a faint vulnerability, a vulnerability only Dean could recognize. Then he raises a hand to wipe at his mouth, blinking slowly, tiredly.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a low murmur, dropping that hand down onto the blanket atop them. Dean smiles innocently.

“I was cold. You looked real damn content over here. Thought I could steal some of your warmth.”

“Hm. Why am I not surprised.”

Dean grins. He leans in over the other man, propped up on an elbow. He kisses him on the forehead. John is silent underneath him. Then Dean angles his head to kiss at his temple. His skin is rough, and warm. He shudders above him, stomach tingly. He kisses him tenderly on the cheek with a slow pursing of his heart-shaped lips, against that long scar. God, he loves him.

“God, I love you,” Dean whispers, mimicking his thoughts without meaning to. It just burst out of him, and now that it’s been said, he doesn’t regret it. He just sucks in a breath and pulls back to look at his father. John searches his handsome face silently, his own unreadable. His jaw is squared, eyes wide. Dean blushes, deeply. John licks his lips and then speaks, lowly.

“I suppose you know what to label it as, then.”

Dean pauses, and then releases a slight laugh. He nods, grinning, which brings out his crow’s feet and lights up his pretty green eyes. John’s gaze drops to admire that smile on his lips. Dean’s heart clenches. His grin softens to a smile. He cups his broad hand around the side of his head, fingers among his messy hair, thumb against his stubbled cheek. John freezes when Dean begins to lean in.

When Dean crushes their lips together, John sucks in a breath through his nose and unsteadily rises onto an elbow—for some leverage. John’s hand jerks up to clutch a fistful of Dean’s shirt. Dean is momentarily afraid he’s going to yank him away. But then he feels his Dad’s full lips purse against his, warily at first. His facial hair is rough against Dean’s skin. His hand is firm on his back, grabbing him, but then it unravels to rest flatly across his shoulder blade. Dean melts, just a bit. John begins kissing him.

Fireworks explode in Dean’s belly. His heart is singing, tingling, beating so hard he feels light-headed. He tries to repress his smile as their lips move together. The sound which fills the room, joined by the hooting of the owl, is suddenly much more alien to Dean’s ears. It’s different this time. It has more meaning.

It doesn’t last terribly long. Their mouths overlap together for a moment longer, an intimate, passionate kiss that Dean puts his heart and soul into, but then John is drawing back, dropping his head back onto the pillow. Dean slowly opens his eyes to gaze down at his father. John’s eyes are lidded, searching his face. His hand slides down over his shoulder blade, across the broad muscle of his back. Dean lets out a long breath, and then smiles.

“Wanted to do that for so long, you don’t even know,” Dean laughs. Surprising him, a slight smile grows on John’s face, his eyes gentle. He nods and brings his hand in from his back to cup his cheek, stroking a thumb across his lips.

“Yeah,” John says. Dean beams. He leans in to kiss him firmly on the forehead again, and then angles his head to kiss him on the mouth. John doesn’t protest. He keeps his hand on the side of Dean’s face as their lips dance together, a deep overlapping that lasts longer this time. They kiss with heat, with a desire that had been tamed for so long now. The contentment and satisfaction completely overwhelms the guilt, the uncertainty. Only when Dean becomes breathless, panting into John’s mouth, does John curl his calloused hand around Dean’s throat and gently push him back. Dean relents.

They search each other’s faces for a moment—Dean is flushed, panting, grinning. John is breathing heavily himself, his chest heaving; his lips are in a smile, honey eyes gentle. Dean loves it.

Happily, Dean moves to lay beside him. He tucks the blankets higher up over them and draws his arm around his midsection, pressing his face into his shoulder. He’s so warm. And he smells good, as embarrassing as the thought is; like his own deep, natural scent, like the hotel soap, like the warmth of the sun.

“Lay on your side,” John murmurs, lowly. Dean kisses him on the shoulder (he is absolutely going to steal as many kisses as he can while this moment lasts) and then obeys. He turns so his back is facing the other man. John shifts behind him, moving to lay against his back. He tucks the blankets around them and winds his muscular arm around Dean’s belly. When his lips meet Dean’s neck in a subtle kiss, Dean shudders and grins to himself. His face is beginning to hurt.

He rests his broad hand across John’s forearm, the sleek silver ring cool against John’s skin. Dean contemplates saying goodnight, but figures it goes without saying. John is silent and motionless behind him, but then he squeezes his arm around Dean, just slightly. He shifts a little closer and gets settled with a deep exhale that brushes across Dean’s skin. Dean bites his lip to quell his grin.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like he could burst from happiness.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Dean wakes up when a hand touches his face. He rolls onto his back, eyes cracking open to see Dad standing at his bedside, fully dressed, the faintest smile on his face. Raising a hand, Dean rubs at his face with a disgruntled expression.

“Morning, sunshine. Get up. We’re going out for breakfast,” Dad says, turning away to begin towards his duffel bag. He digs in it while Dean wearily rises onto an elbow. He watches his father produce a book from his bag, as well as his rub-on cologne. Dean swallows hard, witnessing him roll it over his neck.

Pulling off the covers, Dean rises, squinting at the clock. 9:30. Dad let him sleep in.

“What I miss?” Dean jokes as he begins towards the bathroom, wobbling a bit on his foot that had fallen asleep. He glances over his shoulder to see Dad looking at him with an arched brow.

“You missed nothing. I didn’t leave the room.”

“Well, you must’ve showered, right? And got dressed? See, I missed _plenty,”_ Dean remarks, throwing him a grin before pushing into the bathroom.

 

After washing up, getting dressed, styling his hair, and brushing his teeth, Dean’s ready to go. He grabs his gun, tucks it under his belt, which is a cue for John to rise. Dean notices he’s bringing that book along—peering at it, Dean is curious what it’s about.

Without a word, Dad steps out of the hotel room, followed by Dean. The cool air of the winter morning latches onto Dean’s face. Snow is piled around them, along the parking lot, colored an ugly brown from the pavement. Standing on either side of the Impala, Dean watches Dad take out the keys and get the driver’s side unlocked. Staring at his shaven face, Dean wonders what’s on his mind. If he’s even thinking about last night. If he plans on pretending it never happened. God, he hopes not.

When Dad hits unlock, Dean pulls open his side and drops into the seat.

 

At the diner, it’s warm. It’s cozy, homey, pleasantly atmospheric. Dean feels a smile of contentment lingering on his face as they get settled in a booth. Dad removes his coat, folds it to rest it beside him on the seat. He sets his book aside and grabs the breakfast menu. Dean, smiling, does the same.

They both order coffee, big plates of eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, hash browns—Dean gets a plate of waffles, too. He is so ready to devour everything.

 

They leave satisfied, after nearly an hour spent eating and talking. Talking not just about hunting, too. It’s always a gift when John is in the mood to chat about things that are unimportant and irrelevant to their lifestyle. It makes Dean happy to feel so _normal_ for once. Shooting the shit about movies, memories, sports.

It’s left unspoken, but Dean feels like something’s shifted. It’s no longer just leader and follower, just mentor and student, just father and son. Maybe there’s something more now. Just based on Dad’s behavior, Dean has the impression things are changing. Maybe there’s a new layer of intimacy. Or maybe, Dean is just getting hopeful.

 

* * *

 

For the next two weeks, they jump motel to motel, in search of new leads and evils to put to rest. The tension that typically hung during their shared meals had been replaced with something more relaxed and welcoming. Now, they talk. They talk about meaningful things, they talk about trivial things, they talk about things that make them smile and laugh, they talk about things that normally would result in tension or argument. Like the topic of Sammy.

At night, though not _every_ night, Dean joins John in his bed to sleep with him. It’s become an expectation, a change in routine that Dean greatly appreciates. He’s still unsure when it came to his father’s feelings. John is hard to read, and Dean still wonders if he’s okay with this. He hasn’t shoved him away or put his foot down—sometimes, he tells him he wants to sleep alone, which is just fine to Dean. He knows every man needs his space, whether it be mentally or physically.

On one of these nights, Dean is spooning up close to John, arm wound tight around him with his broad hand resting over his clothed chest. Their legs are tangled together under the sheets. John’s hands are resting limply on the bed in front of himself, which Dean notices, and takes advantage of. Bringing his hand down from his chest, he curls his fingers into John’s. John shifts, weakly clenching his fingers around Dean’s. Dean smiles faintly from behind him.

They lay in silence for a few minutes—Dean listens to John’s breathing, to the humming of cars passing on the highway beside the motel. Dean lays there, wondering. Is Dad enjoying this too? Would he rather Dean give him space, or just cease this entirely? What does he want? He has never really expressed whether he wants this. He does respond, either by holding Dean, accepting any kiss Dean may give him, or reciprocating any embrace… But he never initiates it himself.

“Dad?” Dean speaks softly then, breaking the long silence which hung in the motel room. John makes a rumbling noise, an acknowledgement. Dean licks his lips nervously and speaks again, asking lowly, “Do you like it when I hold you like this? Or would you rather I stop? ‘Cause… I don’t want to be forcing anything. I want you to like it, too.”

“If I didn’t like something, you would know,” John murmurs. Dean feels his voice vibrate against him, against his chest. Silence hangs for a moment; Dean contemplates what to say.

“If you need to know,” John continues quietly, “I enjoy it.”

“But you won’t start it,” Dean finishes for him. John sighs, his torso deflating under Dean’s arm. Then he slides out from his embrace, to sit up. Dean sits up as well and watches him, warily. John rubs at his face with a hand and then drops it into his lap, training his heavy gaze on his son. He searches his concerned, handsome face and then speaks lowly.

“You think I’m okay with this?”

Dean’s breath catches. He looks at his Dad with tension, his jaw tightening and eyes hardening. John searches his face, his own unreadable.

“I’m not okay with this. It’s despicable, what I’m allowing. I should be tearing you a new one for pushing this. I should be controlling _myself,_ my urges.”

“Why don’t you?” Dean presses, crossing his arms with a frown, “If this is making you unhappy, then let’s stop. If you don’t want it, then I don’t want it, Dad.”

John shakes his head and lifts a hand to rub it down over his face before gesturing sharply, saying with a harder tone, “No, Dean, that’s not what I mean. I wish _this_ never happened. But that doesn’t mean it’s making me unhappy. As much as I wish I didn’t, I enjoy holding you. I enjoy kissing you. But… It’s… It’s complicated. I don’t want to force that on you. If you want to come to me, then you can come to me. Just know that it’s never one-sided. I will only be more passive, because I have to be.”

“But you don’t!” Dean snaps impatiently, becoming frustrated. Face flushed, Dean searches his Dad’s tense face as he goes on, saying firmly, “I _want_ you to. I want _you_ to kiss _me._ I want _you_ to join _me_ in my bed. I want _you_ to hold _my_ hand.”

He sighs, shaking his head. He stares at the tangled covers around their legs as he begins idly spinning his silver ring on his finger. He continues, voice tense.

“God, that sounds so freakin’ needy, but I’m just… I don’t want you to have to hold back because you think you’re a bad father if you touch me. I’m twenty-six, for fuck’s sake. I don’t think you could take advantage of me. This is completely mutual, and consensual. The only thing that’s wrong here is that we’re related, but as you can tell, that ain’t stopping us. And I’m glad it’s not. Because doing this makes me happy, alright?”

Dean shakes his head sharply. Shit. He’s not used to being _honest._ Dad is the one who nailed the concept of “sucking it up” into him. He feels uncomfortable and gross talking about his feelings so openly, but sometimes, it has to be said. He peeks up at John.

John is watching him with a stony look on his face, though there isn’t that typical edge in his eyes—the edge that means he’s definitely going to be yelling. It’s absent, which relaxes Dean a little.

“There’s a power imbalance,” John says, searching in Dean’s wary green eyes, “As your father, I could unintentionally pressure you. There might be times where you do or say things if only to appease me. I don’t want that.”

“Wouldn’t that apply to any relationship, though?” Dean remarks stubbornly, crossing his arms, brow furrowed and lips in a frown, “That happens all the time. Someone neglecting their own desires to please their partner—and doing it a little _too_ much, too often. That’s just how it works, sometimes. Usually, because they’re vulnerable or just an idiot, and don’t know any better. But I’m neither of those things, Dad. I could see the line between my… _Partner,_ and my _father._ And I’m not the type to give some when I’m not feelin’ it. You know me.”

Silence hangs for a moment. John stares at him, contemplating. Dean stares right back, arching a challenging brow. It’s not often Dad backs down without a fight, so he’s expecting another rebuttal. Instead, Dad just gives him a tight-lipped smile.

“If I chew you out, it’s as your father,” he says, staring deeply into Dean’s eyes. He lifts a hand, reaches out, and points his finger to firmly press it into Dean’s thigh as he goes on, “If I kiss you, it’s as a man who wants you. Don’t get those mixed up.”

Dean pauses, and then laughs. He nods.

“If I talk back when you chew me out,” Dean begins with a grin, “That’s as your smart-ass son. If I decide I’m not in the mood to kiss you, then I’ll express that as a totally capable, individual man who wants you. Now I guess we understand each other, don’t we, old man?”

“Yeah,” John says, squeezing his thigh, “But don’t think that this discussion makes what we’re doing okay. This shouldn’t be normalized.”

Dean’s smile fades. He nods a little, solemnly. Then he rises onto his knees and crawls over John’s lap to kneel over him. He clutches his face in his hands, fingers threading into his dark locks, thumbs resting on his cheeks. Dean searches in his eyes, smiling faintly. When he leans in to kiss him firmly on the forehead, he feels the tension in his body fade, just a bit. John’s hands raise to rest on the small of Dean’s back.

“It may not be okay to you, nor to anyone else,” Dean murmurs, gazing into his calm honey eyes, “But it’s definitely okay to me. I’d say it’s pretty damn great. I don’t freakin’ care if anyone disapproves, society as a whole or not. If you disapprove, then fine. You’re supposed to. You’re my dad. It’s a little fucked up, but when has our family ever _not_ been fucked up? I’m fine with being a little more fucked up. I used to find it weird and gross, but now I don’t care. I don’t care that I love you. I just do, and I can’t change that.”

Dean knows he’s rambling, so he shuts his mouth. He searches John’s face, finds the slightest smile form on his full lips, his warm-colored eyes soft. Dean strokes a thumb up over his narrow scar that ran across his cheek. Then he leans in with an angling of his head to crush their lips together. John’s hands run up from the small of his back, along the slope of his spine. Dean makes a slight, pleased noise against his mouth. He loves it when he touches him like that, as tame a touch as it is.

“I want you,” Dean growls against his mouth, teeth moving against his lips as he speaks, “I’ve wanted you to fuck me for so long.”

John shushes him gently and murmurs, “Don’t talk about it, Dean. Too soon.”

Dean opens his eyes to look at him with a furrowed brow. John is gazing at him, eyelids low and eyes deep with something intense and dark. He's left a little confused—maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Dad doesn’t want to do anything that sexual, at all. But when he begins kissing Dean again, a slow, firm pursing of his lips, it completely distracts him. John kissing _him_ has heat bursting in his body. With renewed energy, he clutches at him, fingers lost in his hair, thumbs pressing firmly into his stubbled cheeks. He mashes his mouth mindlessly against his father’s.

The heat and feeling of excitement and contentment that swells in Dean as their lips dance makes him feel whole. A warmth spreads throughout him, centering in his chest while they kiss. The kiss is passionate and intense, a firm back and forth overlapping of their lips, until John deviates to mouth over Dean’s jaw and throat, his hands resting across his shoulder blades.

“Oh, God,” Dean breathes, running his hands down over the back of John’s neck, clutching at him closely. Arousal like he’s never felt before burns like a roaring fire in his belly. His cock is straining in his sweatpants, aching. John bringing his hands down to sweep them up under his shirt has Dean sucking in a breath through his teeth.

The touch of his hands is hot against his back, drifting up across the planes of muscle, progressively hiking up his shirt until Dean has to raise his arms for him to pull it off, which he does. He tosses the article of clothing onto the floor and begins touching his bared torso with enthusiasm. Groping at his muscular chest, tracing his abs with blunt fingertips, squeezing his sides. Dean is shuddering by then, eyes lidded and trained on John’s face. John is gazing at his body with hunger, until his eyes sweep up to meet Dean’s.

“Do you want this now?” he asks lowly, cautiously, his gaze careful and calculating as he searches in Dean’s, “I want you to be honest with me, Dean.”

“Yes,” Dean blurts immediately, face hot and eyes narrowed with seldom felt embarrassment, “It’s—I haven’t done this with a man in a long time. The times I have done it, it never went beyond oral. So… Don’t expect me to be ready to bust my legs open like a chick. I mean, I’m—I’m willing, just… Inexperienced. You get me? I want you to, just… I’m not often on the receiving end.”

“Alright,” John says, an amused smile growing on his handsome face. Dean stares, blindsided by it. John gingerly drifts his hands up Dean’s sides in an intimate caress as he leans in to kiss him again. Dean lets his eyes roll shut, swept away by the kiss.

 

At first, it’s extremely weird. Dean refused to think about it too hard as his father sucked him off and fingered his ass—when he did, it made him feel a little uncomfortable due to his lack of familiarity in that position, but in the end, above everything else, he enjoyed it. And now, laying on his back against the pillows, Dean feels comfortable. He’s enjoying every single moment now. Dad is leaning over him, _moving_ above him. A smooth rocking of his hips, a rolling of his back, a calm, lax expression on his rugged face. Mouth slightly open, eyes gentle and lidded, cheeks flushed, hair falling messily across his forehead. Warmth completely surrounds Dean—he’s burning up externally, and feeling entirely content internally.

John’s hands are everywhere. On his face when he kisses him, across his sides and chest when he caresses him, hooked under his knees and pinning his legs up as he fucks him. _Dean’s_ hands are everywhere, appreciating his father’s aged body through touch. Stroking up across his powerful arms, over dark body hair and raised scars. Down across his heaving chest, his chest hair tickling over his fingers as they descend. Touching at his belly, feeling it heave and flex with every rock of his body. And then Dean holds his hips, feeling them move under his hands.

Normally, Dean would pitch a fit about being put in a vulnerable, submissive position like he is—delicate masculinity is a prominent presence for him, after all. But this time, he finds no complaints. With Dad, it doesn’t matter. It just makes him happy, being with him at all.

 

When they lay together in the aftermath, bare skin against bare skin, sweat mixed with sweat, Dean is laying on his back, his wrist caught in John’s grasp. With one hand resting over his forehead, Dean watches as his other hand is covered in loving, firm kisses by the other man. Eyes trained on his son’s flushed face, John kisses the back of his hand. He presses his lips over his fingers, against his palm. One final kiss to the ring and then he threads their fingers together, letting their hands rest against his belly. A warm smile grows on his lips, his crow’s feet appearing. It has Dean melting. He smiles himself, a smile that grows into a grin, baring teeth and his own crow’s feet which aren’t quite as prominent as his father’s.

“I don’t know about you,” he says past a laugh, “But I enjoyed every damn second of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> main: arrestzelle.tumblr.com


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